


For This Night and All Nights to Come

by thepopeisdope



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Night's Watch!Castiel, Sex In A Cave, Wildling!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 04:35:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11200545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope
Summary: Back in the southern castle Castiel once called home, cold was used to describe a bath that had sat too long and was no longer steaming, or a room with a draft. It was cold if one had to put on a tunic with sleeves to go riding.North of the Wall, cold takes on a whole new meaning. Here, cold means frozen rations and endless snow, frostbitten limbs and stolen breaths. Cold is steel biting at your throat in a wordless threat. Cold is when the dead rise again.





	For This Night and All Nights to Come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Willowtwist (willowywings)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowywings/gifts).



> A very, _very_ late birthday gift to [Ari](https://willowywings.tumblr.com/), who is amazing and wonderful and an absolute saint for not being upset with me for promising this to her three and a half months ago and only just finishing it. (Fingers crossed?) 
> 
> Cas edit by [Ari](https://willowywings.tumblr.com/), porn-writing assistance from [Emma](http://confuse-the-polarity.tumblr.com/).

 

It’s always said that taking the Black changes a person, but Castiel would argue that that’s not quite the full story.

Back in the southern castle Castiel once called home, _cold_ was used to describe a bath that had sat too long and was no longer steaming, or a room with a draft. It was _cold_ if one had to put on a tunic with sleeves to go riding.

North of the Wall, cold takes on a whole new meaning. Here, _cold_ means frozen rations and endless snow, frostbitten limbs and stolen breaths. Cold is steel biting at your throat in a wordless threat. Cold is when the dead rise again.

The latter are things he once never would have concerned himself with in even his worst nightmares. Yet here he is now, the point of a Wildling’s blade pressing against the underside of his chin and a twice-dead man on the ground between them, detached head lying a few feet away.

For the first time since he swore his oaths, Castiel finds himself aching for the South. He aches for the person he once was, the young, green boy with sun-warmed skin and no concern for death.

Taking the Black doesn’t change a person. It kills them.

The Wildling standing over him has features which may as well have been chiseled from the icy landscape around them, all hard lines and frigid emotions. Though perhaps comparing him to ice isn’t fair; Castiel is sure he looks no kinder in turn, staring the Wildling down as he is and committing the shape of his face to memory. But that’s not something he feels he can be faulted for.

He only wants to be able to say he knew the face of his killer when he meets the Stranger.

Off in the woods there’s a crack of a tree branch, and the Wildling’s eyes flicker toward it, though unfortunately not for long enough for Castiel to take advantage. He’s surprised by how disappointed he is by that; he thought he was already resigned to death.

As if to further throw off the ranger’s preconceptions, the Wildling shifts his grip on his sword, changing the angle of the blade ever so slightly. Instead of being a threat of immediate violence, it is now more of a threat of the potential, a possibility ready to be made reality only if Castiel refuses to cooperate or doesn’t mind his tongue. Maybe he won’t be dying, after all. Another few seconds pass in tense silence, but then the man speaks, the first Castiel has heard from him since he and his gang of fellow wild people swept through the clearing and made Castiel’s bad day even worse.

Bartholomew died first, ripped into bloody shreds by a figure made of rotten, frozen flesh when it leapt on top of him from above, leaving Castiel and Virgil to fight off its companions. Virgil took one’s head from its shoulders, cut a second in half from shoulder to groin, and bashed in the bare skull of a third with the pommel of his sword. The fourth tore Virgil’s throat out with its bare hands, and the snow turned red. Castiel took down an equal number, though made it through relatively unscathed.

The Wildlings rushed in somewhere in the mix of that, likely just in time to see Virgil die and cutting down the remaining wights. One of the Wildlings was nearly taken down as well when two of the monsters turned to leap at him at once, but Castiel reacted on instinct and managed to take down the one that the Wildling couldn’t, slicing its head off with a quick, clean cut of Valyrian steel.

And then the Wildling realized just what had happened, just _who_ had saved him, and attacked him in turn. Castiel was too surprised to properly react; the Wildling landed a blow against his side and his sword was knocked into the snow, leading him to his current position.

“How many men in your party?”

Castiel’s jaw clenches. His gaze is unwavering where it meets the Wildling’s, and he doesn’t say a word.

The sword twists back into its previous position, sharpened edge once again grazing Castiel’s skin. It sends rage boiling beneath the ranger’s skin, while the Wildling only smirks.

“Do you honestly think I’m going to mind slitting your throat? The Night’s Watch does the same to my people all the time. Answer my questions, and maybe I’ll let you live. Let’s try this again.” The sword digs into his throat once again, and a new, cruel light enters the Wildling’s eyes. “How many men in your party?”

Castiel doesn’t doubt that he’s still going to die regardless, but their circumstances are far from ideal, and in that moment, Castiel has no reason to fight. He exhales sharply through his clenched teeth. “Three.”

“And the other two?”

That, Castiel doesn’t feel the need to answer. His eyes dart to the side for a fraction of a second, then drop. The Wildling inclines his head slightly and, thankfully, doesn’t push for more.

“Why were you sent out in the first place?”

“A group of six was due back at Castle Black two weeks ago. They weren’t supposed to go farther than the Fist of the First Men, but we found signs that looked like they went in this direction.”

The Wildling raises an eyebrow into a perfect arch. Asks with a tone that suggests he doesn’t actually need to ask at all, “Trap?”

Castiel makes a sound that’s halfway between a sigh and a scoff. They had been stupid. “Trap.”

“Serves you right,” is the response he gets, and for a moment, he’s too surprised by the bluntness of it to do more than gape, “you look like a child out here, run off from his pretty little southern castle to play at being a hero. Or are you one of the rejects, the rapists and the thieves and the bastards who’ve chosen to throw their lives away because you have nothing else to lose?”

The words send fury burning through Castiel, outrage at his assumptions and insolence. “Two of my brothers are _dead_ , and you dare—”

“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” the Wildling cuts in. His smirk is as cold as the sword against Castiel’s throat. “You and your _brothers_ made the choice to come out here, unprepared. This side of the Wall is ours for a reason. You crows are too soft, you can’t handle the things we see on a regular basis. Like I said—children.”

Castiel’s teeth grind together, but before he can make the scathing reply that he wants to, one of the other Wildlings reemerges from the snow-covered shrubbery that surrounds them. Castiel’s gaze flicks toward him for only a second; watching the first Wildling is a much bigger priority, as he is the one who poses a threat.

The newcomer’s expression is pinched. “Dean,” he says to the Wildling standing over Castiel, “we have to go. Now. Benny and Jo climbed up to the top of the ridge, they can see at least a hundred dead in the valley. Every minute we spend here, we’re in danger.”

‘Dean’ sighs, a sharp exhale through his nose. His eyes remain locked on Castiel, raking over him. The ranger knows he must make quite the sight; his cloak is ripped at the corner, having been torn by a wight’s hand as it clawed its way out from the ice, there is a cut high on his cheek which bleeds sluggishly, his hair is a mess from wind and battle alike, and to top it all off, there’s a cut across his hip—inflicted by the same sword now held against his throat and the reason he dropped to his knees in front of the Wildling in the first place—that’s steadily turning the snow packed into the creases of his tunic red.

If his mother could see him now…

The Wildling taps him with the flat side of his sword, effectively cutting off all thoughts of Castiel’s mother. The man angles his shoulders toward the newcomer to signal that he’s speaking to him when he asks, “What do we do with the crow?”

“You leave me be,” Castiel snaps. He doesn’t dare rise up against his captors, disadvantaged as he is against them, but he is no coward; he will not let his fate be decided for him. He won’t take it in silence. “My brothers deserve a proper funeral—”

“They need to be burned,” the other Wildling interrupts. Castiel turns a glare on him, and the man shrugs, unbothered. “It’s the only way to make sure they stay dead. Ignore me if you want, but you’re the one who’s going to pay the price if you do.”

Castiel’s fingers twitch, eager to form fists. He only barely resists. “Fine. Then I’ll burn them, and ensure they do not get back up. And then I will return to the Wall, and to Castle Black. I will tell the Lord Commander and First Ranger to stop sending rangers, and we will stay _out_ of your business.”

Dean snorts, his grip on his sword loosening. “Even if some baby crow like you could convince the Lord Commander to stop doing what he has done for thousands of years, you wouldn’t make it back to the Wall. Not alone, not with night falling. If your party of three failed to make the trip, what makes you think you could finish by yourself?”

“I’m resilient,” Castiel says. “My brothers and I were ambushed, I will not let the same happen again on my trip back. I know how to handle myself, _Wildling_.”

Dean’s eyes flash, and Castiel suddenly finds himself once again at risk of having his head cut from his neck, as the man presses the sword back against the ranger’s neck with a new fury. Castiel feels it cut the flesh, feels a droplet of blood seep from the wound and roll down his neck.

“Do _not_ call me that,” the Wildling hisses. “We are no more wild than the men living in your precious _kingdom_ , Crow. The only difference between me and you is that I am _free_.” He flicks his head, his decision apparently made easily now. “Sam, tie him up. We’ll take him back to camp with us, decide what to do from there. He saved my life; this is me saving his. We’re even.”

Sam moves toward him, but Castiel thrashes, throwing himself backward and away from the sword even as Dean sheathes it. “No, don’t—You can’t—I need to go back!”

But Sam is quick, and due to the blood loss from the wound in Castiel’s side—when did he begin to tremble from it? How did he not notice? Even with the adrenaline that’s undoubtedly coursing through his system, the realization shocks him—renders the Wildling stronger, as well. A length of rope materializes out of his pocket and is wound around Castiel’s wrists before he can object any further—though he certainly continues to object after it’s in place.

“No, please, you can’t—!”

Unfortunately, a heavy weight collides with the back of Castiel’s skull before he can properly voice his objections. He sees a look of shock cross Dean’s face, then indignation directed somewhere over his shoulder.

Castiel’s world turns to black before he can process anything more.

 

When Castiel opens his eyes next, he is being carried between two men, his arms over their shoulders for ease of transportation, and from what he can see through his half-open eyes, the terrain is all unfamiliar.

He practically hears Balthazar’s voice snarking in his ear for that assessment.

 _Unfamiliar? It all looks the bloody same with all of this snow hiding everything. It’s probably even a stretch to call it_ terrain _—you’d probably gather more about where you are with your eyes closed._

Castiel will never see his best friend again. The one person who he knew before the Night’s Watch, the son of one of his father’s advisors back home who made the journey north at his side, kneeled beside him in front of the weirwood and pulled him into a hug after their oaths were sworn. Balthazar was made a ranger, as Castiel was, but hadn’t been sent on the same trip beyond the Wall because he was under probation for getting caught sneaking back from Mole’s Town a few nights before.

What a way for him to lose his best friend. Castiel is sure he’ll blame himself.

“Oh, well look who’s decided to join us!” a voice to his left says, and his left shoulder gets jostled accordingly. Their forward movement stops, and a moment later, Castiel gets thrown to the ground. He grunts on impact, pain lancing through his hip as he crumples into the snow.

A hand touches his shoulder sympathetically, and a female voice says, “Come on, Benny, we decided not to kill him, let’s not do it now. We don’t need him bleeding any more than he already is.”

The first voice—the ass who had thrown him to the ground, ‘Benny’—grunts, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

Castiel already despises him the most of them all, he’s decided.

The woman—has Castiel heard her name yet?—slips her hand around to his chest and pulls him upward. He’s holding his hand tight over the wound on his hip and his eyes are scrunched closed with pain, but he wrenches them open so that he can at least attempt to take in his surroundings.

Unfamiliar, snowy mountains. A wilding with long, blond hair and plain features, a still-fading scar over her left eye. Behind her, hovering protectively, the tall, shaggy-haired Wildling who had tied Castiel’s wrists in the clearing. Castiel heard his name, he knows it, but cannot recall what it may have been. He doesn’t care enough to put much effort into the task.

“Make sure he isn’t bleeding through his bandages,” another voice calls, and that one—that is one Castiel knows.

His vision goes red as he yanks himself away from the female Wildling’s hold and turns a glare in Dean’s general direction. “I’m fine,” he snaps. “My wounds are not your concern. _I_ am not your concern. I need to return to the Wall.”

Dean laughs dryly, boots crunching in the snow as he walks toward him. “Gods, you’re like a wolf with a bone, aren’t you? Just won’t let go.” When he reaches Castiel, he reaches down and hauls the ranger up by his cloak, forcing him to his feet. Dean ignores the grunted objection his efforts receive and chirps far too lightly, “Good thing for all of us, I don’t give a damn how stubborn you are. Benny and I will keep carrying your sorry ass, if that’s what it takes. We’re going to our village whether you like it or not.”

Castiel glares at him with as much vehemence as he can muster, but grits his teeth to hold back the insults he instinctively wants to hurl. He still has an ache in the back of his skull from being knocked out—something he’s also going to attribute to Benny, if his fuzzy memory of the incident can provide enough clues to be believed—and despite his rejection of the female Wildling’s attention, the pain in his hip is debilitating. Even if they were to abruptly change their stance and leave him to his own devices, he wouldn’t be able to make it back to the Wall. He probably wouldn’t last the night.

Which means that it’s in his best interest to play nice for the time being, and let the Wildlings help him.

The fight drains from Castiel’s shoulders as he reaches the conclusion, and he exhales heavily through his nose. Electing to ignore Dean for the time being, Castiel looks to the female Wildling. “I’m assuming you bandaged my wound while I was unconscious. Did you apply only bandages, or did you have any sort of medicines to apply, as well?”

There’s a profound silence following his question, and the woman blinks. She glances back toward her companions for a brief moment before her gaze returns to Castiel, guarded and wary. “I used some medicine that should encourage the cut to heal, but I didn’t use as much as I could have, since you were already unconscious. Does it hurt again now?” At Castiel’s tight nod, she smiles sympathetically. “We should probably refresh your bandages, anyway, I can help you apply more. Pull your clothes out of the way and lay back, I’ll get what I need.”

Castiel nods again, and does as he’s told. It’s not easy to expose the bandages on his hip, but he manages it well enough, and then reclines back on his elbows to allow the Wildling room to work.

As she starts peeling off Castiel’s existing bandage, the strips of white cloth colored with stark-red blood in a pattern reminiscent of the cut that lies below, she turns her head slightly to the side to address the men behind her. “Sam, honey, get the kit out of your bag and bring it to me, will you?”

Sam obeys with a wordless nod, and drops onto his knees in the snow a few moments later with an unidentifiable bundle in his hands. Castiel pretends to be interested in it to give himself an excuse to ignore the sharp stare the Wildling attempts to pin him with. The woman takes the bundle and unwraps it, revealing a basic array of medical supplies. She makes quick work of it, applying a salve to Castiel’s wound and then recovering it with fresh bandages. When she’s done, Castiel mutters a thanks, and gets to his feet while she puts her supplies away.

He nearly crashes back to the ground then and there when a fresh wave of pain lances through his hip. He presses his hand hard against the bandages where they lie beneath his layers of clothing, hissing through his teeth as he doubles over.

“Damnit,” someone—Dean? Castiel’s attention is elsewhere at the moment—grumbles. “Guess we’re not done carrying the son of a bitch, then. We can’t stay still for too long, not in this valley. Sam—you good to help carry the crow for a bit?”

The answer comes in the form of a sigh. “Yeah, I can do it. But if I’m on crow-duty, you get to carry the bag.”

“Weighs less than a crow. They’re feeding ‘em well these days, apparently.”

The woman laughs at that, and Castiel’s irritation finally reaches its breaking point, his pain momentarily fading into the background as his head snaps up.

“I have a _name_ ,” he bites out. He despises hearing the Wildlings talk about him as if he isn’t there, but it’s another thing entirely to have to be referred to as ‘the crow’ throughout, as if he isn’t even human. It’s unnecessarily demeaning, given how terrible of a situation he is already in.

They’re talking about _carrying him_. Honestly.

Unsurprisingly, Dean rolls his eyes in an exaggerated fashion and groans. Surprisingly, his reply is, “Not one you’ve _told us_. We’re not mind-readers.”

The ranger blinks. It’s not a bad point.

He clears his throat, almost feeling foolish for his irritation. _Almost_. “Castiel.”

“ _Castiel_?” Dean snorts, at the same time that at his side, Sam smiles and says, “Nice to meet you, Castiel.”

Castiel frowns at them both, and chooses not to dignify either with a response. Sam doesn’t seem bothered by his silence, however, as he goes on to introduce the lot of them.

“I’m Sam, in case you haven’t picked up on that,” he says, gesturing to himself, and then to Dean, standing with his arms crossed and a scowl which seems to be a regular feature. “This is my brother, Dean. My wife, Jo, has been your healer for the day. And that’s Benny over there, watching our perimeter.”

There is far more civility to the exchange than Castiel was expecting, and it threatens to throw him off. The instincts he has to fall back on are good ones, however, and he forces himself to straighten up as much as he can, even though his hand remains pressed over his hip. The salve Jo applied is steadily beginning to make itself known, which he is thankful for. “A pleasure.”

Dean laughs, the sound far from kind. He swipes a theatrical hand through the air and then drops halfway into a mock bow. “ _A pleasure_ ,” he repeats, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He turns to Sam when he’s done, hooking a thumb back toward Castiel. “Can you _believe_ this guy.”

Sam’s lips part around a reply, but anger scorches through Castiel, hot and bright, and he beats him to the punch.

“Unlike some people present, I was raised to have manners. It is not the custom in the Seven Kingdoms to be raised by _wolves_.”

Dean immediately spins toward him, fire in his eyes as he raises to the bait. “Well it is not the _custom_ in the north for Free Folk to spare crows, but here we are—”

“Oh, so I can’t call you _Wildling_ , but you can still call me a _crow_?”

“That’s different. You _are_ a crow. _We_ are not wild things.”

“That is the name for you that we have, it is not demeaning—”

“Well it certainly feels demeaning, you son of a—”

“ _Hey_!”

Dean and Castiel startle away from each other when Sam’s shout interrupts them, both being quick to put distance between them that Castiel didn’t even notice was being closed while they were fighting. He glares across the gap at Dean and Dean glares right back. Sam makes an exasperated sound.

“Gods, can’t you two just shut up? You have no reason to be fighting right now. Dean—stop being an asshole. Castiel—” He falters slightly when he turns toward the ranger, clearly not knowing quite what to say. It’s harder to discipline a stranger than it is his brother. He settles on, “Don’t… pick fights. We still have a long way to go here, alright guys? Don’t make this any worse on the rest of us.”

Dean crosses his arms over his chest and turns away with a pout. Castiel scowls at him automatically, but lets it fall a moment later when he catches Sam’s disapproving stare. He waves his hand errantly, then starts to walk in the general direction he thinks they were headed in before he woke. Jo steps up to his side and slips under his arm to help take some of his weight off of his injured side, and since she doesn’t correct his course, he assumes his guess must not have been a bad one.

The rest of their walk for the night is made in silence.

 

It isn’t until they’re close to breaking camp the following morning that a thought occurs to Castiel, sitting next to a dwindling fire with his hands bound together. An important one, well worth breaking the self-imposed muteness he has kept up since arguing with Dean.

(The other man has been equally silent, of course; Castiel isn’t the only one among them who is stubborn, much to Sam’s obvious chagrin.)

He asks without preamble, “Did you have the common sense to bring my sword along when you abducted me?”

Dean, seated nearby while they’ve been waiting for Benny to return from scouting ahead, turns to Castiel when he speaks and pulls a face. Then, turning halfway away again, he mimics the ranger in a high-pitched voice, “ _Did you have the common sense to bring my sword along when you abducted me_?”

“I _do not_ sound like that,” Castiel objects hotly. It earns him an eyeroll from Dean, followed by a look which is laden with condescension.

“You’re not getting it back, if that’s why you’re asking,” Dean goes on to say, not verbally acknowledging Castiel’s interruption. “We have the _common sense_ not to give our prisoner a weapon.”

Now it’s Castiel’s turn to roll his eyes. “I’m not _asking for it back_ , Wildling, I merely asked if you saved it. It has value. It’s Valyrian steel.”

Dean stiffens—over the word ‘Wildling’, Castiel suspects, and notes with some vengeful form of glee—but it quickly drains away to be replaced by a look of confusion. Shock, maybe. Castiel isn’t quite sure, but it catches his attention in turn, and his head tilts in curiosity as he waits to hear the cause of the look, as he inevitably will. Dean likes the sound of his own voice, Castiel has determined.

“Valyrian steel,” Dean repeats, slowly as if he’s mulling it over. “You’re sure about that?”

Castiel makes a face. “Why wouldn’t I be? That sword was my birthright, I know its history dating back generations. And I know the difference between Valyrian steel and plain steel, besides.” He pauses for a beat, then asks, brow furrowed, “Why do you care so much about the nature of the steel?”

Dean gives Castiel a long, calculating stare.

“Valyrian steel is good for wights,” he eventually says, words punctuated with a shrug that Castiel knows isn’t as casual as it seems, “and better for White Walkers. It’s the only thing besides dragon glass that can kill them.”

Castiel’s brow furrows. “What is—”

“Obsidian,” Sam cuts in smoothly. He wasn’t nearby a few moments ago, but the sound of a potential argument likely summoned him. “I’m pretty sure that’s what your maesters call it. It’s called ‘dragon glass’ in the north.”

“I see.” _Obsidian_ is a substance Castiel is familiar with, at least on paper. He had gone through a phase when he was young wherein he wanted to become a maester and spent as much time as he could with his home castle’s resident maester as a result, reading from his vast collection of books and soaking in all of the knowledge he possibly could. Metatron had enabled his habit, right up until Castiel’s father caught wind of it and put a decisive end to his son’s useless fantasies. It didn’t crush Castiel’s desire to know things, but it certainly made obtaining new information more difficult.

He wonders if the maesters of the Citadel know that obsidian can kill White Walkers.

He wonders if they even know the White Walkers exist.

Given the fact that Castiel didn’t know they were anything more than a scary story told to children in the north before he encountered proof of their existence himself, he highly doubts it. The Kingdom is woefully unprepared for the winter that is steadily approaching.

Castiel sighs and rubs at his temple. “Where is my sword, then?”

Dean looks as though he’s going to harass him for keeping up the line of questioning, but shakes his head and lets it drop. “Benny has it. If and when you earn it back, you can get it from him.”

“That sword was my birthright,” Castiel says again. “I didn’t bring it all this way to lose it, or have it stolen out from under me. It is not my intention to start a fight over this, but I want to be understood.”

Sam raises and eyebrow. “You were allowed to bring a sword that important along with you to the Night’s Watch?”

Despite himself, Castiel’s lips tick up in a smile. “No.”

Dean tries to hide his laugh in a cough, and fails miserably. Castiel can’t help but feel proud of himself.

 

After Benny finally returns from his scouting, Jo helps Castiel change his bandages again, the last thing they needed to do before breaking camp. Castiel’s hip doesn’t leave him with as much of a limp as it had the day before, which means when they start off for the day, Castiel’s hands remain tied together. It’s irritating, and makes him feel constrained, but no one has to support him and help him walk, so he considers it a decent trade-off.

The further north they get, the colder it becomes. Wind whips across the plains they cross and cuts into their skin, and for the majority of the day, Castiel can see a storm brewing to the east. The dark, roiling clouds are ominous even from a distance, and more than once the ranger finds himself wondering just how fickle the winds are, considers how likely it is that that storm will change directions and kill them while they don’t stand a chance.

From the sideways glances he sees Dean give the storm, he knows the Wildling is thinking the same thing. None of them voice their concerns, however, and they continue to trudge on through the snow-buried terrain in silence. Close to nightfall, Castiel’s hip begins to ache too much for him to continue on on his own, so Sam undoes the rope from around his wrists and steps in to help him.

They don’t make camp again until the storm dissipates in the early hours of the next morning. No one has any objections.

 

Having walked through the night, however, means that tensions are high as the five of them gather around a small fire in the light of the midday sun. Benny is off a bit from the rest of the group, even more quiet and brooding than usual after a brief scuffle with Jo. Jo and Sam sat by the fire while they ate, a silent affair during which they both kept side-eyeing each other, then moved off to talk in soft tones where they wouldn’t be overheard. Castiel’s wrists were left untied so that he could eat as well, but Dean hadn’t been pleased by that, and it had been the cause of a rather large argument between him and his brother.

But Sam’s argument had won out, thankfully, and now here Castiel sits, enjoying a small taste of freedom. It’s far more alluring than the cold, preserved meat that made up his meal.

And Dean sits beside him, tense and angry and glaring at anyone and everyone. Castiel would suggest that he take a nap, if he wasn’t sure that saying anything even remotely critical will result in getting his hands tied back together.

On several separate occasions, Dean turns to Castiel with his lips parted, sometimes with a scowl and other times without, and then turns back away with a huff or a muttered curse. At first Castiel thinks nothing of it, but by the sixth time that it happens, his patience is wearing thin.

“If you’re going to say something, Dean, just say it.”

It sounds like Dean chokes on his tongue, but Castiel doesn’t look up from where his gaze is locked on the embers of the fire to verify. Dean splutters for another minute, scoffs, and then finally manages to find his tongue.

“Why did you join the Night’s Watch?”

Castiel blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“You heard me,” Dean says. “You’re not like any of the other crows I’ve met. You’re just as much of an asshole, but you’re way more prissy. So, what was it? Were you a rapist? A murderer? Skating your way out of debt to the crown?”

Castiel bristles. “Not everybody in the Night’s Watch—”

“No, just ninety-nine out of every hundred.” Dean hadn’t seemed hostile with his initial question, but now that he’s gaining speed, he’s quickly hurtling in that direction. He continues, “If you weren’t one of the criminals, then, how did you end up on the Wall? Don’t tell me. Was life as a Southern lordling not _exciting enough_ for you, Cas? Did you think it would be a grand idea to come up here and stick your nose into a war that isn’t yours, and flounce around like you own the place?”

Castiel scowls at him, gloved hands clenching into fists. “I did not join the Night’s Watch for the purpose of _any_ war, let alone one which is not my responsibility even as a member of the Watch. If you’re talking about your battle against the White Walkers, I have no care for it.”

“Did you want to become a crow because it sounded _fun_ , then?” Dean leans in even closer to Castiel, their noses nearly brushing as the wildling snarls at him, the man’s eyes glowing like wildfire. “Because you thought black would be your color, or something? I hope it’s not because you just wanted to impress some whore down in that kingdom of yours.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Castiel snaps, finally losing patience with the Wildling’s accusations. He straightens himself up and glares, irritation only spiking when Dean holds his ground. “Had I stayed in my home lands, my throat would have been slit by my own kin, just to get me out of the picture.” Dean’s eyes widen slightly at that, but Castiel barrels on, “My only means of survival were to either renounce my name and inheritance and join the church, or renounce my name and inheritance and take the Black. So tell me, Dean. What would you have done, had you been in my situation? Can you even comprehend it?”

Dean is quiet for several long moments. He stares at Castiel, then stares into the fire. Taking it as a dismissal, Castiel grunts and follows his example. The fire is easier to look at than Dean’s face, anyway.

He isn’t expecting the Wildling to speak again, yet he does, a few moments later. Castiel sees him wet his lips out of the corner of his eye, and braces himself for the worst.

“Why would anyone want to get rid of you?”

Castiel glances over at Dean, surprised by the question, the wording, the tone. It’s less antagonistic than any exchanged between them so far, and Castiel doesn’t know what to do with it. His irritation with the subject gets disarmed completely.

A blush blooms across Dean’s cheeks when he catches the ranger staring, pink coloring the skin beneath his freckles. Obviously, he has noticed the same altered qualities in his speech. He fumbles over himself in his effort to explain, “I—I mean. From what I know of the South, which isn’t all that much, they seem to like their lordlings. And, uh. Well, you’re kind of an ass, but it’s not like—You seem like the type who would’ve had ladies falling all over you, and you’re not bad with a sword…”

Despite himself, Castiel’s lips twist up into a hint of a smile, and he silences Dean’s rambling with a raised hand. He briefly considers telling the Wildling that it’s not any of his business why Castiel’s family shunned him (it isn’t), considers telling him to stop making wild assumptions (he should), but instead, he figures… It doesn’t matter. Out here, where they are, nothing matters. And he’s too tired to keep fighting.

So the ranger shrugs and answers, “I had the desire to lay with men.”

There’s a beat of silence. Dean’s brow furrows, something like disgust crossing his features. Castiel tells himself he doesn’t care and looks back to the fire.

Eventually, Dean says, “What?”

Castiel scowls at the flames. Maybe he should have controlled his tongue better, after all. He would really rather not explain this. “Sometimes women have the desire to lay with other women, and men have the desire to—”

“No, no.” Dean cuts him off with an errant wave of his hand, and when Castiel looks up, he finds the Wildling’s expression twisted even further. But maybe not with disgust. Confusion? Dean leans in. “I mean—what kind of fucked up family do you come from where it matters who you want to stick your dick into? Or if you want to have a dick stuck in _you_? Why would anyone care?”

Yet again, Castiel finds himself caught completely off-guard by Dean and his apparent penchant for unpredictable questions. He turns and stares, uncomprehending. It takes him a moment to gather his thoughts, but when he does, he hedges, “It is a sin. It is against the laws of gods and men.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Why would I joke about such a thing?” Castiel snaps, Dean’s disbelief making him defensive. “The Seven do not take kindly to sinners, and nor do their followers. My family is devout; if anyone else found out about me, I would have brought shame on them all. Our House was favored by the King, do you think that would have held?” He scuffs his boot in the snow and scowls. “Joining the Sept would have meant ‘renouncing my sins’, letting the faith of the Seven ‘cleanse’ me. By taking the Black, I at least had the luxury of shedding my family and still retaining _some_ of who I am.”

“Gods,” Dean swears in his obvious surprise. “No wonder you’re so…” He doesn’t finish the thought, his expression going strange as he fidgets with the hood of his cloak. It sends bits of crusted ice scattering through the air, but the man doesn’t pay it any mind. When he meets Cas’ eyes next, a few moments later, his gaze is unreadable. “The Seven sound like dicks. The Old Gods are better, so long as you stay loyal, and true.” He claps Castiel on the shoulder, letting the touch linger. “You’ll like the Free Folk. They’re less judgmental. We’ll accept you no matter what.”

“Oh. Um.” Castiel has to blink rapidly, this time to clear the dampness that has sprung to his eyes from nowhere. He presses his lips together and turns his face away from Dean, dropping his chin into the black fur lining of his cloak. He wasn’t prepared for acceptance. He wasn’t prepared for this conversation at all, really. “Thank you.”

Probably sensing Castiel’s changed attitude, Dean clears his throat, and when he speaks again, some of his typical gruffness has returned. It sounds more forced. “Yeah. ‘Course. Not that it means you’re staying with us or anything, though, so you don’t have to thank me.”

Castiel shrugs. He does need to return to the Night’s Watch, when he can. But if he can revel in the freedom of the Wildlings for just a few nights, let himself pretend…

He resolutely ignores the small, traitorous voice in the back of his mind telling him that maybe—just maybe, if what Dean says is true, if his turn toward kindness holds—staying wouldn’t be so bad.

The more rational part of his mind firmly declares that he would never be a deserter. He tries not to think about how distant the threat of becoming a deserter is beginning to feel.

He shuffles closer to the fire and doesn’t say anything more to Dean. The Wildling remains in his vicinity for the remainder of the night.

 

The journey back to the Wildling camp isn’t a terribly long one, not much longer than the trip which Castiel would have faced had he gone back to Castle Black, according to Jo (though in the opposite direction). Castiel’s presence has the effect of making the journey longer than it would otherwise have been, though, with the wound on his hip slowing him down. The Wildlings stopped bothering to restrain him once it became apparent that he had no interest in turning and running back toward the Wall, which the ranger is thankful for, and they’re all patient with him and his injury.

Interestingly enough, this is especially true of Dean.

After their talk by the fire, the leader of the party is much kinder than he had been to Castiel previously, as if the preconceived image Castiel had shattered was the only reason Dean had been foul in the first place. Either that, or he has earned himself some pity. He’s not overly fond of the latter option, but frankly, he’s happy enough to be treated as more than a prisoner that he doesn’t mind too much.

The other three Wildlings follow Dean’s example, too, which is nice. Sam had already been willing to talk to him, but now when he does, Jo adds into their conversation instead of sending him stern looks. Benny still keeps his distance for the most part, but it’s in a much more amicable way. Castiel is no longer worried that the larger man will slit his throat in his sleep, at least, and that’s more than enough to satisfy him.

As they walk, Dean takes to telling him about the Wildlings—the Free Folk, as they call themselves—and their way of life. He tells him about their culture, their various tribes, their politics. He tells him about the Night’s Watch deserters who have joined their ranks over the years, and the citizens of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond who have found their way north and made it their home. He tells him about wargs, the men who can walk in the skins of animals. He tells him about the old ways, the Old Gods and the Children of the Forest and the weirwood trees. The old stories, Dean says, still live through the giants (who, apparently, are not as extinct as the Night’s Watch likes to tell their men).

Through all of it, Castiel listens with rapt attention. There’s an intricacy to the Wildling ( _Free Folk_ , Castiel firmly reminds himself) life that he hadn’t been trained to expect, given the way his brothers on the Wall speak of them. From the moment he arrived at Castle Black, the Lord Commander and all who were sworn to follow his lead spoke of nothing but how barbaric the Wildlings are, how cruel, how monstrous, how disgusting. Traitors, inbred whelps, cannibals, fiends—there is no shortage of sharp words to describe them.

Yet, with every day Castiel spends with the so-called wild people of the north, the more he wonders where the Night’s Watch’s flawed perspective came from. Knowing the Free Folk he knows, he can’t imagine any of what they spread is based in truth.

Now that Dean is friendly, Benny is left to be the most standoffish of the lot, and even he isn’t horribly unkind. He tends to sulk in his silences, yes, but according to a bout of gossip Dean whispers to him over a lunchtime fire, that’s more due to his lingering issues over a lost fiancée than any true grief with Castiel, or even the other members of their party.

(Castiel files that tidbit away and tries to use the knowledge to improve his interactions with Benny, and makes an effort to be less antagonistic toward him after that—purely to make his own life easier, of course. The other man doesn’t outwardly acknowledge the shift, but he’s less of an ass in return, which Castiel appreciates.)

But still, even considering Benny to be the least friendly, he’s a far cry from the foulness the Night’s Watch trained Castiel to expect. They’re not monsters. They’re human, just as everyone south of the Wall is.

Through their interactions with one another, the small band of Free Folk are clearly family. Sam and Jo are just as soft and affectionate with one another as any other couple in love Castiel has known, and Dean…

Well.

Castiel likes Dean more and more with every passing hour.

Everything he thought he knew is steadily crumbling down.

 

The Wildling village is massive.

Beyond massive. It sprawls farther than the city surrounding the southern castle Castiel grew up in, as far as the ranger can tell from the mountain slope they’re making their way down when he first spots it. He can’t see as far into the distance once they get to ground level to make their approach, but even from a lower angle, the village doesn’t become any less intimidating. There’s no way anyone in the Night’s Watch knows about it.

The fact that that’s Castiel’s first, instinctual thought settles sourly in his stomach. Even if— _when_ —he returns to the Wall, he won’t tell them about this. He can’t. He may not have been given a choice over coming back to the village with Dean and his band, but they have treated him well, and made it clear over the course of their journey that ultimately, they bore no ill-will so long as he acted the same.

He would have died if he had attempted to go back to the Wall on his own. He may not admit it aloud, but he is certain it is true. Therefore, he owes the Free Folk his life.

He wouldn’t reveal their secrets. Not now, not ever.

He very intentionally doesn’t let thoughts of his shifting alliances settle into place. Best to save that crisis for later, he thinks. Even idly considering it now is leaving him weary.

“Ready for this, Cas?” Dean says, clapping a hand to the ranger’s shoulder as he comes to walk by his side. It comes as a bit of a surprise to Castiel, considering Dean has spent most of the morning so far walking with Sam at the back of the group and pretty much ignoring Castiel altogether, but he certainly has no objections. He’s tempted to ask Dean what he was heatedly whispering with Sam about, but there’s still tension in the set of Dean’s shoulders, and he doesn’t want to aggravate it.

Which is why he pulls on a thin smile and replies simply, “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Dean’s grin doesn’t reach his eyes— _a shame_ , Castiel thinks—but he claps Castiel on the shoulder nonetheless. “That’s the spirit. Come on, then, let’s get this over with.”

Before Castiel can ask what ‘this’ is, Sam is swooping in to bracket his other side while Jo takes point, and then they’re crossing the village’s invisible border and there is no time for talking.

Everyone they pass stops and stares. Some of the Free Folk look at Castiel with surprise, taking in the black of his cloak with open wonder or curiosity, while others sneer and scowl. A member of the latter faction shouts something in a tongue Castiel doesn’t know and then tries to spit on him; when the attack hits Sam instead, the offender is swiftly put in his place by Jo’s flying fists and a barrage of words which are equally indecipherable yet equally foul sounding.

If nothing else, he is glad that he at least has people around to defend him. He would never have been in the Wildling village in the first place if it weren’t for those same people, of course, but Castiel is willing to look past that for the time being. He’s only alive thanks to them, after all. It’s a multifaceted mess.

Dean presses a hand against his back to steer him onward through the village. Before long, they come upon a tent that is larger than the rest, tall and marked with red flags that stand out sharply against the snow-dusted canvas of the tent itself. The sight fills Castiel with a sense of dread, and he has a good idea of what is about to happen.

The two guards stationed outside the tent’s entrance straighten up when they see them approaching, hands going to their weapons as their eyes fall on the black cloak among the group. Castiel tries to stop, pressing back the hand Dean still has on him, but the man is having none of it, and doesn’t let their pace even be slowed.

When the guards’ gazes turn to Dean, they back down instantly. There are no words exchanged, not even any gestures, as far as Castiel can tell, and yet the guards put down their jagged knives and turn their heads in deferment, apparently suddenly willing to overlook the member of the Night’s Watch walking into their command tent.

Castiel can’t wrap his head around it.

That is, until the four of them stride through the flaps of the tent and the first words out of Dean’s mouth are, “Dad. We need to talk.”

Two men sit poring over a map on a table in the center of the tent, and both look up when Dean speaks. One of them, clearly the older of the two, immediately picks Castiel out of the group and his eyes widen in surprise. And then he looks to the man opposite him, worry etched into the lines of his face beneath his greying beard, and that is how Castiel knows which of them is Dean and Sam’s father.

The younger man rises to his feet and turns toward the group. The lamplight shifts across his features as he moves, casting his cheekbones into sharp relief and making him look even more menacing than he already does with his tall stature and generally threatening aura. Castiel can see the general resemblance between Dean and his father, but the man looks more like Sam.

“Dean. What have you done.”

Dean and Castiel wince in unison. Behind them, Sam clears his throat.

“Dad, this is Castiel. Cas, this is… John.”

John sends his youngest son a quick look, but otherwise keeps his attention primarily on the eldest. “You were sent out to scout, not to collect stray crows. Bringing him back here could have endangered the whole camp. Where did you find him?”

Dean’s throat bobs when he swallows. “North of the Fist. His party was—”

“I don’t care. Were you followed? I don’t think I need to tell you what the consequences would be if the Night’s Watch knew of our location.”

“No, but Dad, it wasn’t like that, and he was hurt—”

“Dean, you know we have no business—”

“He saved my life,” Dean interrupts, and John abruptly falls silent. For a long, terrible moment, the only sound in the tent is the distant crunching of footsteps over snow and muted conversation from the rest of the village. Somewhere closer, there’s a loud, obnoxious burst of a laugh. It reminds Castiel too much of the silences he used to have with his father, typically before the man issued him a fresh punishment for failing to be a perfect son.

Dean shifts on his feet like he’s going to say more, but before he gets the chance, John’s eyes lock on Castiel’s and he demands, “Is this true? You saved my boy, Crow?”

Castiel nods. His fingers feel numb. Being stared down by John is alarmingly similar to being stared down by his own father, the two men sharing a brand of intimidation which Castiel has never encountered anywhere else. Not even King Michael, whom Castiel met on his seventh nameday, was as terrifying.

It takes him a moment to find his voice. “Yes, sir. There was a wight he didn’t see, it nearly ripped out his throat.”

John studies him in silence for a long moment. Then, as if he’s decided the ranger’s fate, he gives a single, decisive nod. “Fine. A life for a life, then. Crow—do you want to go back to the Wall?”

For a moment, Castiel is too busy trying to understand why Dean went rigid at his side to process the question. When he does, he hastily clears his throat. “I—um. Yes. That’s what would be best.”

John looks surprisingly amused by that answer, but the expression quickly passes, replaced by the same, serious look he wore before. “We will allow you to leave only with the understanding that the Night’s Watch will not be lead back to this location, nor shall they ever know any of what you may have learned on during your little _excursion_. We can ensure you make it back to the Wall in exchange for these promises. We will not take betrayal lightly. Am I understood, _Castiel_?”

Castiel tips his head in understanding. He already knows he would never sell the Free Folk out, not just for all that they’ve done for him, but also for the fact that he truly, genuinely likes them. Dean, Sam, Jo, maybe even Benny—Castiel would consider them his friends. He’s grown closer to them in their days of traveling than anyone he knows back home, Balthazar not included. His relationship with Balthazar was different, anyway.

John nods as well, his gaze shifting to Dean. “You and I will talk about this another time. Bobby and I are due for a meeting with leaders from the mountain clans, so we will discuss what to do with your… friend, after we return. We’ll be taking thirty men with us; you’re in charge until we are back.”

It looks as though Dean is going to object to that, but the other man in the tent pointedly clears his throat, and Dean’s shoulders hunch. “Yes, sir.”

“Thank you,” John says, then over his shoulder, “Bobby.”

The other man stands when his name is spoken, wordlessly falling into place behind John as they both exit the tent. The tent remains silent even after they have gone, however, and fraught with a tension that Castiel can only partially understand.

This time, Jo is the one to break the silence.

“Well. That could have gone worse.”

Sam chuckles weakly, while Dean heaves a sigh. “You’re not wrong,” Dean says. He turns to Castiel, then, his lip caught between his teeth. “You okay hanging around here for a couple more days? I think he’s willing to arrange an escort to the Wall for you, but I don’t have the authority to do that kind of thing myself while he’s gone.”

Jo makes a sound that sounds like a disagreement, but from what Castiel can figure out from the flurry of sounds that break out behind him, he thinks Sam hushes her. He starts to turn around to investigate, but before he can, Dean throws out a hand and catches him by the front of his cloak, demanding his attention.

Castiel blinks in surprise, then arches a single eyebrow. Dean’s cheeks turn slightly pink.

“I—uh. You can’t wear this,” he blurts. He reaches to yank on Castiel’s black hood in emphasis. “If you’re going to be hanging around for a few additional days before—Well. The people out there only acted like they did toward you because of this thing. I know I have another cloak around here somewhere, if you don’t mind trading it out for the time being.”

Castiel glances down at Dean’s hand, still clenched in his collar, and then slowly nods. “Yes, that… sounds reasonable. If I’m going to be staying for a few days, it probably isn’t wise for me to be wearing the one article of clothing likely to get me murdered.”

“Exactly! Here.” Dean finally releases him in favor of turning and scouring the tent, picking around until he finds a cloak like the one he is already wearing stored in a chest. He shoves it into Castiel’s arms when he returns. “Put this one on, and leave yours in here. Nothing will happen to it, I promise.”

The cloak’s safety wasn’t one of Castiel’s concerns, but he doesn’t bother correcting Dean on the matter. He obediently switches out his black cloak for the new, brownish one, folding his old cloak when he’s done and leaving it on top of the chest his new one came from. The new one fits him well enough, and he doesn’t think it makes him look too out of place, either. The rest of his clothes are also black, but that’s less of a concern. He automatically looks to Dean for approval. “Better?”

There’s an odd look in Dean’s eyes as he looks him over. It takes him a moment to nod his approval. “Better. Much better.”

Castiel beams in satisfaction. They don’t linger in the command tent for much longer after that. The guards are still waiting outside when the lot of them step through the flaps, but don’t look twice at them. Sam and Jo head off toward the right from there, likely in the direction of the fire he can see blazing at the edge of the camp, but Dean noticeably stalls, and Castiel looks back at him in concern.

“I need to…” He makes a vague gesture, his expression pinched with displeasure as he fumbles to explain. “If I’m in charge while Dad’s gone, that means I have to… There are some things… Sammy, you mind?”

Castiel looks back just in time to see Sam shrug. “Do what you need to do, it’s fine.”

It’s a simple answer, but Dean’s shoulders still sag with relief. “Thanks, Sammy. I’ll catch up with you guys soon, I promise.” He touches Castiel’s shoulder and then eases away from the group, casting a pointed look at his brother. “Start showing him around, will you? Take him to the fire, introduce him to the people, help him make friends. But don’t let anyone start fights, you got me?”

Castiel can’t help but frown at the overprotective nature of the request—he’s not an _infant_ , for fuck’s sake—but Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll keep him perfectly safe, don’t worry. No harm will come to your new best friend, I swear. We’ll probably be by the fire when you’re done.”

Dean’s cheeks color with spots of pink and for a moment, it looks as though he’s going to object to some part of his brother’s words. His lips part, but then he shakes his head, and promptly turns on his heel and marches off through the tents. He disappears from sight within moments.

Castiel tries not to think about how unbalanced he suddenly feels in his absence.

Once Dean is gone, Sam claps Castiel on the shoulder, and then starts to steer him toward the aforementioned fire. Its flames reach higher than any man, and Castiel can feel its head radiating against his face even before they actually reach it.

“Now remember,” Sam says into his ear as they approach, “people are going to be interested in you, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Be polite, because the Free Folk are known to hold grudges. Oh, and most importantly—don’t call anyone a ‘Wildling’ unless they say it first, unless you want to be skinned in your sleep tonight.”

Castiel swears under his breath, but nods his understanding.

Sam pats him on the back, straightening back up to his full height. “Great. I’m sure you’re going to be fine, then. Now go on and meet people.” The man gives him a light shove in encouragement, then skirts around him to go take a seat on one of the many logs surrounding the roaring fire. Jo is somehow already there, and he slots in easily beside her.

Now that he’s alone, Castiel’s nerves ratchet up to an all-time high. He isn’t sure what to do with himself, doesn’t know where to go or how to _meet people_ , and he flounders for longer than he cares to admit before finally taking steps toward the fire and the crowd of people around it. So much for Sam _introducing him_. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to make it any farther than the log that Sam and Jo are seated on before someone calls out to him.

“Looking for someone to talk to, are you?”

Castiel turns toward the speaker, surprised to have been called out so soon. The voice the ranger heard could only be described as sultry, and the woman he finds seated on the log beside Sam and Jo’s matches that description. She has a perfect, heart-shaped face framed by long, lush hair, and from the way she holds herself, it’s clear even through the layers of her warm clothing that her body is all curves and clean edges, and that’s something she is comfortable with. Her looks don’t appeal to Castiel, but there is still something about her that catches his attention. His head tips slightly as he tries to figure out what it is.

Her lips twist into a smirk. “Well?”

And that’s when it clicks. The woman’s accent is distinct; Castiel’s eyebrows raise. “Are you from Braavos?”

That earns him a full grin. “A point to the crow,” she coos. She extends a hand. “Bela. And you are?”

“Castiel.” He grips her hand, and is struck by a sudden moment of awkwardness in which he doesn’t know what to do next—he was raised to be a lord; usually when he is offered a woman’s hand the expectation is to kiss it, but that hardly applies beyond the Wall—but he shakes it off as quickly as he can and lets Bela’s hand fall, sitting himself down beside her. “How does a woman from Braavos come to be a Wi—among the Free Folk?”

From somewhere over his shoulder, he swears he hears Sam snicker at his near slip-up. Thankfully, Bela doesn’t so much as bat an eye. Her lips curl in a smile that reminds him of the cats that used to live in the library back at the castle of his childhood, and she hooks her fingers around the crook of his elbow as she pulls him in even closer to her.

“I was born in Braavos,” Bela begins to explain, “but my father was a merchant, so I’ve… been around. I went to every major city in the Seven Kingdoms before I ran north. You could say I got to know them intimately, even. But enough about me. Let’s talk about _you_.”

She’s sitting too close to Castiel for comfort, her thigh pressed firmly against his own, and the hand that isn’t still around his elbow is teasing along the front of the cloak Dean lent him. Her fingers are long and nimble even while gloved, intimidating and enticing, and this—this is something Castiel is familiar with. He may not have any sexual interest in women, but that doesn’t mean that he didn’t have _their_ interest back home. Potential wives seemed to come from everywhere, of their own accord or their families’, or called upon by his own mother. He was polite to them all and tried to escape any advances, but that didn’t stop them from trying to seduce him—trimmed, polished nails, roaming touches, not-so-casual gropes, all of which left Castiel feeling exactly as he does now.

Clammy. Trapped. Like he can hardly breathe.

“Bet you were a good little crow, weren’t you?” Bela says. “Stuck to your vows? Now that you’re free of them…” Bela’s fingers trail down the center of Castiel’s chest, and her grin somehow sharpens even more. “I always did think men of Night’s Watch had more potential than most to be good in bed.”

Castiel jumps backward so quickly he falls off of the log. A few people look over in interest and there’s a scattering of laughter, but Castiel pays them no mind, busy scrambling backward and trying to get _away_. “I—I, um. N-no thank you. I really don’t think—” He bumps into a pair of legs as he tries to make his escape, and cuts off mid-sentence as fear rises up in his gut. He turns hurriedly, expecting to be kicked or worse—and sags in relief when he looks up into a familiar face. “Oh. Dean. I didn’t see you come over.”

Dean’s eyes are hard, but not directed at Castiel. The ranger follows their path and finds them locked on Bela, who is looking back at the other Wildling with a cold smirk.

Castiel feels uneasy as he starts to get to his feet. Dean offers him a hand up, which he gratefully accepts. He isn’t expecting the man to tug him close to his side once he’s up, but that’s exactly what he does. He’s still glaring at Bela. Bela, who is now glaring right back and says, “The little lordling can do as he pleases.”

Castiel, meanwhile, is lost.

Without another word to Bela (though Castiel thinks he hears him _growl_ ), Dean hooks a hand in the hood of Castiel’s cloak and tugs him in the opposite direction of the bonfire. “Come on, Cas, I wanted to show you something anyway—warm you up.”

“Warm?” Castiel’s brow knits in confusion, but he is pliant as Dean pulls him along. He’s more than happy to be given an exit to the awkward situation with Bela to complain, and the man has more than earned his trust, besides. But that doesn’t mean he understands what he’s hearing. He stumbles to keep his footing and turn around so he’s no longer walking backward without dislodging Dean’s hand from his hood. “Warmer than being by the fire? Aside from that, I’m sorry to tell you this, but I don’t think ‘warm’ exists this far north. Not-cold is a different thing, Dean.”

Dean, half a step ahead of him, turns and flashes him a grin so bright it leaves spots in Castiel’s vision. The ranger hardly even notices as they cross the outer boundaries of the camp; apparently whatever the standoff with Bela had been is passed. “Didn’t anyone tell you, Cas? The Free Folk have more up our sleeves than most southerners give us credit for. Where we’re going, we’ll be plenty warm, I promise.” He slides his hand down Castiel’s body to take the ranger’s hand in his own, and leads him into the mountains.

Castiel’s stomach swoops, and his throat closes. Even gloved, Dean’s fingers are strong and curl almost too easily along Castiel’s own. He wonders if hand-holding is as personal a thing for the Free Folk as it is in the Seven Kingdoms, or if this is simply one of those instances where their varied upbringings are only going to cause confusion—that happened often enough for Castiel at the Wall that he wouldn’t be surprised. It would make sense.

He tells himself that’s what it is, though he’s not sure he believes it.

Castiel isn’t as skilled at picking his way across the rocky earth as Dean clearly is, but the Wildling is patient with him, never letting go of his hand and guiding him along with an ease that feels natural for them to fall into. As they walk, the sounds of the camp fade away, eventually leaving only their breathing and the crunching of their boots over the icy ground. They climb a small ridge before dipping down into a crevice, and just when Castiel is starting to wonder where in the seven hells they’re going, Dean turns to him with a wink, then yanks him along into a crack in the face of the mountain.

Or more accurately, into a _cave_ in the face of the mountain. They have to turn their bodies to the side and side-step in, due to the narrowness of the entryway, but after only a short distance it opens up into a decent-sized tunnel and then, after that, a space five times larger than John’s command tent. Rocky formations make up the majority of the space, rendering a good portion of it unusable, but clustered near the center are three pools of water of varying sizes, steaming with natural heat.

Castiel can see Dean biting his lip out of the corner of his eye, most likely nervous as he watches for signs of the ranger’s approval, but Castiel can’t tear his eyes away from the sight in front of them. He stares for too long, his jaw slack, then slowly picks his way toward the pool nearest them.

Up close, the steam billows up into his face and floods him with warmth, the most heat he has felt since he left home. He distantly realizes that he owes Dean an apology for doubting his claim of having warmth to show off in the first place, but that’s far from being his top concern. He’ll apologize later. He turns back to the Wildling, unable to contain his amazement. “Dean… this is incredible. How did you find this place?”

Castiel had been too distracted by the steaming water to notice, but Dean followed him to the pool’s edge, and now stands close to his side. He beams when Castiel voices his appreciation, an expression which manages to make Castiel feel just as warm as the steam had. The lighting in the cave isn’t overly bright, refracted as it is through crevices in the ceiling, but he can still see Dean clearly.

Crinkles form at the corners of Dean’s eyes when he smiles. “Been coming here for a while now, pretty much since we set up camp here. I found it with Sammy not long after our mom died. He doesn’t come here anymore, though, because he knows that it’s mostly my place.”

“You come here for privacy?”

Dean shrugs. “Pretty much. There’s another set of pools like these ones to the south of the camp, a bit larger than these ones. People go there to bathe, or enjoy themselves. Sam and Jo are more likely to go there, unless they specifically want this cavern, in which case Sam usually asks me first and makes sure that I’m not going to accidentally walk in on them.”

Castiel huffs in amusement, but nods his understanding. He wouldn’t want to walk in on his brother and sister-in-law while they were naked, either. He turns back to the spring in front of them and makes a vague gesture. “So what are we…”

“What are we doing here?” Dean finishes for him, and again, the man grins. Then, before Castiel can say anything more, Dean reaches up to undo the fastenings on his cloak, and begins to undress himself before Castiel’s eyes. The ranger’s shock must show, if Dean’s growing amusement is anything to go by. “Don’t you know how baths work, little Crow? We can’t get into that water with our clothes on.”

Heat floods Castiel’s cheeks, and he jerks his gaze away from Dean’s nimble fingers to meet the man’s eyes instead. “I know how baths work,” he snaps, without any true heat. “I just… I didn’t think…”

Dean’s grin only widens. “Didn’t think what? That you’d get to see this hot bod of mine? Well, sweetheart, I think you’re in for a surprise.” Dean strips out of his outer tunic and drops it into a growing pile on the ground with his cloak and boots.

Castiel scowls, but follows his example, hurrying to catch up. “Shut up, Dean.”

Dean laughs, a bright, happy sound, but it dies away when Castiel pulls his tunic off, his eyes catching on a patch of skin which became exposed when his shirt rode up. The Wildling’s face turns pensive, and Castiel frowns in confusion. He follows Dean’s gaze down to his stomach to see what the problem is, and figures it out as soon as he sees it.

The place where Dean cut him is now mostly healed, but it’s still an angry, red line that draws the eye, easily seen against Castiel’s tan skin. Castiel wouldn’t have thought twice about it, used to seeing it as he is from all the times Jo helped him with his bandages, but that is clearly not the case for Dean.

There’s a horrified sort of look in his eyes as he says, voice almost frighteningly soft, “I almost forgot about that.”

Castiel pulls his shirt the rest of the way off and drops it to the ground. The mark on his hip is the first and only one on his torso, the only other scars he carries being one on his upper arm and another just above his knee. That one is his worst, but still concealed by his pants, so it’s not an easy argument he can make to assuage Dean’s guilt.

He sighs. “Dean, it’s fine, really—”

“It’s _not_.” Dean closes the distance between them, grabbing Castiel by the hip to hold him in place. Carefully, as if he’s afraid of breaking Castiel, Dean drags his thumb along the raised line, getting to know the feel of the forming scar against the smooth, unmarred planes of skin all around. Castiel shivers, but Dean doesn’t acknowledge it; he only barely raises his eyes, and looks distant when he does. “This is from me. I did this to you. I didn’t know you, then, I didn’t think you were going to be any different from the rest, I’m sorry, I thought—”

Castiel hushes him before his words can tumble into any more of a panic, cupping Dean’s jaw and pressing his thumb over the man’s lips before he can think of a reason not to. They’re standing close, closer than he realized, and Dean is still clutching at his hip, fingers splayed around his scar. Castiel doesn’t pay any of it any mind, however, eyes locked on Dean’s as they are. Eyes as green as wild fire, even in the dim lighting of the cave. They make Castiel’s chest feel too tight, like there’s an actual weight on his ribs impairing his breathing.

His lips tick up in a smile. “You thought I was a threat, I thought the same of you,” he says, tone gentle enough to startle even himself. “That’s what happens when two people are strangers, Dean. Neither of us had reason to trust the other, but we do _now_.” He drags his thumb away from Dean’s lips—pointedly ignoring the way they part in the aftermath, pink tongue darting out for a brief instant—and slides it over the arch of his cheek. “I’m not upset with you for this mark. The way I see it, it’s something I will always have to remember you by.”

Maybe it’s only proof of his naivety, but Castiel isn’t expecting Dean to kiss him. The Wildling’s lips are warm and insistent as they drag against his own, and when Castiel gasps in surprise, his tongue sweeps across them, as well. All of it makes Castiel’s head spin.

It takes a few moments for Castiel’s brain to start functioning correctly, but once he does, he kisses Dean back with all he has. His lips don’t move nearly as smoothly as Dean’s do, his motions inexperienced and awkward, but the longer they kiss, the more time they spend devouring each other’s mouths, the easier it becomes.

Until the reality of the situation sets in and Castiel breaks away with a gasp. “Dean, we shouldn’t—”

“Shut up, Cas,” Dean growls, pressing right back in against his lips to muffle his protests. “For once in your life, just shut _up_.”

Castiel does.

Dean backs him against one of the cave walls and grinds into him, his arousal hot alongside Castiel’s own through their thin layers of clothing. Clothing which, now that Castiel thinks about it, is far too cumbersome and in the way. Why is he the only one shirtless? It’s incredibly unfair.

Dean’s mouth leaves Castiel’s in favor of nipping at his neck, where he chuckles between grazes of teeth. “Unfair, hm?” Apparently Castiel had voiced his complaint aloud, but even though his face heats with embarrassment when he realizes that fact, Dean carries on in such a way that it becomes clear to Castiel that he enjoys it. “Too bad I don’t give a damn.”

Before Castiel can say a word in opposition, Dean retakes the reins and lets his experience make itself known. For several long minutes, all Castiel can do is hold on for the ride, his fingers gripping Dean’s shirt and his head tipped back as the Wildling mouths and bites at his throat. At some point his thigh slipped between Castiel’s, rutting into him and grinding _just so_ —enough to pull desperate moans from Castiel’s throat as his hips buck of their own accord, but not enough to actually get him anywhere.

From the smirk on Dean’s face when he raises his head to meet Castiel’s gaze, he knows exactly what he’s doing to him.

And Castiel is having none of it.

He fists his hands in the front of Dean’s shirt and pulls him for another searing kiss, breaking it only momentarily so that he can yank the offending article over Dean’s head and toss it away. Without it, Dean is beautiful, and Castiel reverently maps out the lean planes of his body with his hands, even as he continues to kiss the man.

When they finally break for air some unknowable amount of time later, the two are flushed and panting, staring at each other with equal amounts of awe in the light of the cave. Castiel can see every one of Dean’s reactions as he slides his hands down the length of his broad back, slips them beneath the waistband of his pants and squeezes his ass—Dean’s hips rock forward into Castiel’s and the movement pulls matching moans from both of them. When Dean looks up again, his eyes are wide and lust-blown, his lips swollen and pink, and Castiel smirks in victory. Two can play at that game.

It turns out, though, that Dean isn’t one to let anybody have the upper hand for long. A second later, there are two deft hands fumbling at the fastenings of Castiel’s pants. The Wildling grins up at Castiel, an almost challenging look in his eyes, and the ranger can only stand there in shock, pinned against the rock wall. With all of their frantic kissing, he had forgotten that _this_ part may also be coming up. Even the friction Dean had been giving him with the thigh wedged between his own is different from what Dean is going for now, which is so far out of his element that it may as well be unknown lands at the furthest east of the world compared to where they’re standing presently. However, he barely has the time to consider this unknown, let alone figure out its extents and what to do with it before his pants are being shoved down, and a warm, calloused hand is wrapping around his cock.

His head hits the wall of the cave and he moans, abruptly unable to form any coherent thought at all.

Of course, when he opens his eyes, Dean is smirking at him.

“That’s more like it,” he purrs, and any response Castiel may have managed to formulate only comes out in a strangled sound as Dean’s thumb swipes over the head, smearing the fluid that has gathered there. He’s instantly hushed, regardless of his incomprehensibility. “Shh, I’ve got you,” Dean coos, “let me take care of you.”

He presses in close, bracketing Castiel in against the wall. His hand works in practiced strokes over Castiel’s length, slowing Castiel’s efforts to try and collect the fragments of his brain that continue to evade his control. Dean’s body is a firm line against his own, pinning him to the wall, so it’s not overly difficult for Castiel to snake a hand between them and unlace the man’s pants.

Dean’s reaction when Castiel gets a hand around his cock is beautiful.

Castiel watches, his lip caught between his teeth, as Dean swears and bucks, rocking his hips firmly against Castiel’s own. Both of them hiss in sharp breaths as their cocks slide against each other, and Castiel’s head hits the wall yet again as Dean takes them both in hand. The pressure, the friction, the slide—it’s all amazing. Dean is amazing.

The Wildling chuckles against his throat, his breathing already ragged, and Castiel can’t find it in himself to care that he’s voiced his thoughts aloud yet again. Apparently, Dean has a way of breaking down his self-control on multiple levels, and Castiel is very much okay with that.

It isn’t long before Castiel realizes how close he is to his edge, the tingling heat building at the base of his spine both foreign and familiar, from the few times he’s tried this sort of thing on his own, long ago. Somehow, one of his hands made its way into Dean’s hair while the other grabs greedily at the man’s ass, letting him feel the muscles as they bunch and flex with every thrust. Castiel widens his stance so that Dean can fit more easily against him.

He’s not going to last much longer.

“Dean,” he warns. The sound gets choked out around a moan as Dean tightens his grip.

There’s a flash of darkened green as Dean looks up at him, and while there’s still a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, the expression in his eyes is one of shock and wonder and desperation. Distantly, Castiel recognizes that it’s nice to know that Dean is equally affected by this.

It only takes a few more rolls of his hips before Castiel is coming with a cry, pressing his forehead to Dean’s shoulder as he spills over the man’s hand. Dean keeps hold of them both for a few more moments, nursing Castiel through the aftershocks and murmuring soft praises. When he’s done, completely spent, Dean wraps a hand around himself, chanting Castiel’s name into the air between them until his release is painting Castiel’s stomach in long stripes.

Castiel isn’t really sure what just happened and he has a vague suspicion that that means he’ll freak out about it as soon as he processes it, but for the time being, he lacks the mental capacity to give any more thought to it than that. He and Dean are still leaning comfortably together, Dean’s weight the only thing that is keeping him from sliding down the rocky wall of the cave to curl up on the floor.

When they’ve both had the chance to catch their breath, Dean cups a hand to the back of Castiel’s head and pulls him in for a kiss. Castiel expects it to be slow and languid, a reflection of how he feels at the moment, but it’s not.

Dean kisses him with desperation. He kisses him like he’s afraid.

“I don’t want you to go back,” Dean pants against his lips when they part, and Castiel’s heart constricts violently. Dean presses their foreheads together and rushes on, wild-fire eyes burning bright, “Don’t go back to the Wall. Stay here. Stay with me.”

His fingers are insistent where they dig into Castiel’s skin, but hesitant, as well. It’s the latter observation which makes Castiel’s chest ache the most.

They’re both slick with sweat, sated, and messy with fluids. Dean’s body is warm against his own, the cold of the stone behind him a nice counterbalance. The pool of water in the center of the cavern is still steaming, calling to Castiel and filling him with the urge to sink into its depths with Dean at his side, to share that warmth with the other man and never return to the snow awaiting them outside the cavern.

But then he realizes…

They could do just that.

It wouldn’t be so difficult. Castiel has been clinging to the idea of returning to the Wall, but in truth, there is nothing there that holds his attention. A few friends, some brothers he doesn’t completely despise, but little else. It’s not as though he has family to return to. When his ranging party failed to return, he was probably written off as dead, anyway.

He doesn’t need to go back.

He can stay with Dean.

As the thought settles into place in Castiel’s mind, a weight he didn’t even notice he was carrying falls from his shoulders. His outlook changes so quickly that he feels dizzy with it, lightheaded in the best possible way.

He pledged his life to the Night’s Watch— _It shall not end until my death_ , had been the words—and yet, as far as his brothers will know, he accomplished that by dying with Bartholomew and Virgil. They won’t look for him, and he won’t give them reason to. He won’t break the rest of his vows. He won’t return to the Wall, like those defectors who like to flaunt often do.

He wets his lips. “Okay.”

Dean’s grin is blinding.

 

They venture out some ways from the camp to do it. It doesn’t need to be a private thing, necessarily, but it isn’t a spectacle, either. Neither Dean nor Castiel want it to be something that brings in attention, harassment, or—as Dean mentions in a tone that’s both joking and not joking at all while his hands skate possessively across Castiel’s hips—more interest like Bela’s. Plenty of Free Folk might want a chance to know the crow who discarded his wings in favor of walking on his own two feet, and Castiel has no interest in anyone else.

It’s better if it’s just them.

They find an outcropping over the valley that is good enough for their purpose; Castiel knows it’s the spot the instant he sees it. Dean helps him gather kindling and stones to build a fire, and once the man has gotten it roaring, Castiel opens his bag and pulls out his cloak.

The thick, black fur is not as appealing to him as it once was. It had brought him a sense of freedom when he donned it for the first time, comforting him nearly as much as the oath he had sworn in the dirt in front of the weirwood just beyond the Wall. It was a physical sign of the fact that he was free of his parents, the expectations of his home. With the black cloak around his shoulders, they couldn’t touch him.

But they can’t touch him out here, either. Out here, he is free.

Dean lays a supportive hand between Castiel’s shoulder blades, and the ranger— _former_ ranger—sighs. He runs his fingers through the fur of the hood, smiles wistfully, and then tosses the cloak into the flames. Dean pats him on the back, then moves around him to stoke the fire and ensure it burns properly.

Smoke billows up from the cloak, flames licking around the edge until the heavy material catches fire, with as much ease as though it were kindling itself. The black fabric withers in the heat, and before long, it melts into the ashes beneath.

Castiel stares for a good, long while, then glances sideways, looking at the snow-dusted Wildling to his left. Dean wrinkles his nose when he catches him looking, but his lips twitch with a smile. He’s already been staring himself, so it’s not as though he could raise a complaint even if he wanted to.

Still, the man purses his lips. It doesn’t hide his growing amusement. “Something on your mind, Crow?”

“Not a crow,” Castiel quips automatically. The words feel good leaving his tongue. Right. Just the same as the next ones: “You’re beautiful.”

Dean’s cheeks turn pink, and Castiel’s happiness turns into something white-hot in his chest. He doesn’t bother identifying it; there’s no need. It’s a feeling he’s familiar enough with, despite the fact that it’s not one he ever felt when south of the Wall. He doesn’t regret not going back to that place. He doesn’t think he could, now.

Dean huddles in close to him and reaches to tangle their fingers together, and Castiel feels the truth of that thought with an even sharper clarity. Why go back to the Wall, when he could have this? He turns his face into Dean’s and kisses the bolt of his jaw.

His Watch has ended.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I'm on tumblr! [Follow me!](http://thursdays-fallen-angel.tumblr.com/)


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